Raeanne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry Summer

“Something you can be sure I will be bringing up with the city council in the interest of public safety, of course.”

“He says he can fix my bike, Mom. We won’t have to take it to Mike’s Bikes. Cool, huh?”

She smiled. “Frosty.”

Riley gestured to her crutches. “Are you supposed to be walking around? Last I heard, I thought the docs wanted you to use the wheels for a while yet.”

She looked slightly guilty. “I tried. I really did. But I got so sick of it. I kept banging into doors and I felt trapped, not being able to tackle even a step. At my last appointment, I made Dr. Murray fix me up with crutches. It’s still not easy to get around and most of the time in the house I end up using that office chair to roll from room to room, but it’s better than trying to maneuver the stupid wheelchair.”

Riley could completely relate. When he’d been shot in the leg a few years back—a minor injury from a drug bust that had gone south, which he had decided not to share with his mom and sisters for obvious reasons—he had lasted about three days on sick leave before he’d been hounding his lieutenant to let him back on the job.

“So you’re feeling better?”

“Much. I’m going a little stir-crazy, if you want the truth. I need to get back to the bead store.”

“Hey, Mom, I’m starving. What smells so good?”

The house did smell delicious, the air rich with something Italian, full of tomatoes and garlic, basil and oregano.

“Your sister’s making dinner. It should be ready soon, but we need to clean up that mud before you can eat, young man.”

“And I still need a bandage.”

“Right.” She made a move as if to pivot, but Riley stopped her.

“You need to sit down. Point me in the right direction of your first aid supplies and I can take care of it.”

“I’m fine. You don’t have to…”

He cut her off. “Bathroom, you said, right? I’m on it. Owen, see what you can do with some paper towels to wipe off the mud, okay?”

He headed into the same room where he’d washed up after he had hauled away her branches the other day, a clean, comfortable space with textured walls painted a rich Tuscan gold and umber.

After grabbing a box of bandages off the shelf and some antibiotic ointment, he followed the sound of voices to the kitchen. He found Owen recounting his fall all over again, this time to his sister who was standing at the stove wearing a red-checkered apron and stirring something in a stockpot on the stove.

“Wow. It really smells good in here.”

Macy flashed him a pleased smile, looking very much like he remembered Claire at that age.

“Thanks. Hey, Mom, how much fresh rosemary did you tell me again?”

Claire was standing at the island in the kitchen, quartering tomatoes for the tossed salad in a bowl in front of her, he was annoyed to see. “One teaspoon ought to do it. Do you need me to check the flavor?”

“No. I told you I can handle it. You said you would sit down. So sit down.”

He decided Macy was an uncommonly sensible girl.

“Just a minute more. I’m almost finished,” Claire insisted.

She shifted her weight slightly on the crutches and he saw a spasm of pain cross her features. With a frustrated sigh, he set the first aid supplies on the kitchen table, where Owen sat near the dark, rain-splattered bay windows, then moved behind Claire and in one smooth motion, he scooped her into his arms and carried her toward the table.

Macy and Claire both made the same shocked sort of sound but Owen just giggled.

“Put me down,” Claire insisted. “Right this minute.”

Now why would he want to do that when she was soft and warm and smelled like strawberries and springtime? He smiled down at her and had the guilty satisfaction of seeing her gaze rest on his mouth briefly before she jerked it away.

“I plan to,” he answered calmly. “See? I’m putting you down right here in this chair. I’m not going to stand here and watch you overdo.”

“Fixing broken bicycles, bandaging boo-boos, carting around invalids. You’re just overflowing with helpfulness, aren’t you?”

He smiled at her tart tone. “Doing my civic duty, that’s all.”

He finally decided he’d held her long enough—probably longer than was smart—and lowered her into a chair at the kitchen table adjacent to her son, who was watching the whole thing with amusement.

“What would you like me to tackle first? The boo-boo or the salad?”

She glared. “Oh, do I get a choice now?”

“If you can choose wisely.”

She rolled her eyes, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile lurking there. Might have been a trick of the light, though. “I can fix up Owen from here. I could actually slice the tomatoes from here, too, but because I have a feeling you’re going to insist on doing something, you can finish the salad.”

“Wrong. I’m going to insist on doing both. You’ve only got one good hand. Just relax.”

She looked frustrated, but he also saw the lines of pain around her mouth, so he didn’t let her annoyance bother him.

“Let me wash my hands and I’ll take care of the BMX casualty here first.”

He took off his jacket and hung it over a chair, then headed to the sink where Macy was watching the whole scene with interest. “It really does smell delicious,” he said as he rolled up his sleeves and lathered his hands. “What are you fixing?”

“Spaghetti. It’s not very hard. I just have to boil the pasta. Grandma brought over the sauce, but we like it a little spicier than she does, so we always add some stuff to her sauce.”

Claire didn’t look exactly thrilled by her daughter’s confession—or maybe she was still annoyed at him.

“Whatever you’re doing, it smells perfect.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, adding pasta to another stockpot full of burbling water on the stove. “That’s probably the bread sticks. They’re just made with frozen dough, but they’re really good and super-easy.”

When he decided his hands were sufficiently degermed, he picked up the cutting board and knife along with the remaining tomato as well as the cucumber next to it and carried them to the kitchen table to Claire. He still didn’t think she needed to be fixing a salad, but he knew her well enough to know the small gesture would please her—and even though he knew damn well it was wrong and maybe even dangerous, he wanted to make her happy.

“Thanks,” she murmured with a soft light in her eyes.

“You’re welcome.” He deliberately turned away toward Owen. “Okay, sport, let’s take a look at the damages.”

The boy rolled up his pants leg, revealing a relatively minor scrape.

Riley cocked his head. “Not bad. I think you probably need only about five shots and oh, about ten, maybe twelve stitches.”